


Who Could Ask For More

by MellytheHun



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop, Best Friends, Confessions, Crowley is So Fucken Soft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Food mentions, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Possessive Crowley, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19186168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: Sister, I live, and lie for you,Mister, do, and I'll die.You are mine, I possess you.I belong to you forever.





	Who Could Ask For More

The sun sets, the dining hall of the Ritz empties over the hours, and wine disappears at an alarming rate (by human standards) from the shelves, but Crowley and Aziraphale aren’t bothered to move for quite some time.

Aziraphale notices that Crowley says very little over their pecking, and drinking, but tries not to mind the uncharacteristic silences; Crowley looks rather pleased, in fact, so Aziraphale hopes there’s little, if nothing, to worry about there. He does worry a little, though.

They’re taste-testing just about every dessert the Ritz offers, when Crowley mutters, “can’t believe you threatened not to speak to me again.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, “Crowley, dear, I highly doubt I’d have kept my word.”

“I was in mourning.”

“It’s a _car_. And it’s _back_!”

“You had only just become corporeal again, I’d lost the Bentley only a moment before, and you threaten to never speak to me again? Honestly. Evil.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale nearly laughs, “I am sure I never would have followed through!”

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing.”

“Goodness - you know what _I_ can’t believe?” Aziraphale asks, tucking away a last bit of key lime pie, “You stopped Time, Crowley. You stopped _Time_!”

“And? You’ve done similar things,” Crowley argues, waving his hands in a vague gesture that is maybe meant to translate into ‘dicking about with cosmic mediums.’

“No, Crowley, that’s not the point,” Aziraphale tells him, leaning forward with seriousness, “What’s all this nonsense been - gluing pennies to sidewalks, harassing ducks, and plants, making the M25, creating Jingle - when you could do such masterful, powerful acts all along?”

“It’s _Jenga_ , Angel,” Crowley corrects, “It’s a game designed to torture everyone that plays - it’s-it’s _self-inflicted torture._ I made it so that no one wants to play it until they see someone _else_ playing it - it’s like a virus. They see someone else playing Jenga, or the giant version that these kids like nowadays, and they go ‘ohhh, I’d love to play that - let’s get Jenga,’ even though no one _actually_ wants to be playing Jenga when they’re playing it. Are you not hearing the genius in it? It’s widespread anxiety. It makes you distrust your closest friends. It’s one of my most Hellish designs.”

“What I’m saying - oh, that lavender gelato is sublime, do try - what I’m _saying_ is that you could have made a _real_ virus. Or done any number of cosmically diabolical things had you put more effort into it. You have such power, Crowley. Really, I almost feel cheated. Like, you’ve barely tried!”

“I only asked questions, Aziraphale.”

“Hmm?”

Crowley stares at the bit of gelato in his dessert spoon, and says again, “I only asked questions. I’ve never been the sort for extreme violence, really. I’m not… built that way. Didn’t want to do those things, didn’t want anyone to get _seriously_ hurt. I just wanted some _say_ . Just wanted to know why I had to do what things I was assigned to do, wanted to… well. I wanted answers. Didn’t get them anyway, did I? I’m not good with authority is all, Aziraphale. I’m not proper evil. I took credit for his doings, but Vlad the Impaler? Terrifying! I couldn’t even stomach _thinking_ of what he’d done. Humans make viruses, they like disemboweling each other, and doing all that stuff - they’re _proper_ evil sometimes. I can’t be like that, though. Never was. Just asked questions.”

Aziraphale lowers his spoon to his dish, listening to Crowley, and he tilts his head worriedly, as Crowley seems to get lost in thought, mumbling, “couldn’t be a proper Angel, couldn’t be a proper Demon… just not good enough, not bad enough… just not enough…”

Empathetic, and so proud, Aziraphale tells him, “you’re so unlike other demons, Crowley.”

“I’m down, there’s no call to kick,” Crowley grumbles around lavender gelato.

Smiling again, Aziraphale flaps a hand at him, “oh, stop! You know how I mean. There are many, many things to choose from in the Almighty’s Ineffable Plan, but, truly, dear, you may very well be my favorite of all Her wonders.”

Happy to keep picking at sweets, drunk, sappy, and glad, Aziraphale only notices Crowley staring at him all slack-jawed when he glances up to comment on the coffee cake.

Crowley looks - well, unlike himself.

He looks unguarded, surprised, and maybe a little troubled.

Just as Aziraphale is going to ask after him, Crowley says, “tell me about the eighteen hundreds. I slept through them.”

“You - wait, you _slept_ through them? The entire thing?”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale gesticulates wildly, “Crowley! So much happened!”

“Well?” he asks with a smirk, “Go on. Tell me everything.”

At first flabbergasted that Crowley could sleep through a century, and then _not read up on it_ , Aziraphale entertains him with a colorful lecture (chiding him through it all).

Hours pass like that, Aziraphale delighting him with Heavenly wonders he observed, miracles he performed, sticky situations he managed to get out of, but the night grows long while he speaks. And he speaks without interruption.

Crowley doesn’t look away for a moment - seeming entirely taken with Aziraphale’s history lesson, and completely unwilling to stop him.

So, Crowley doesn’t actually _say_ , ‘I’m not ready to part ways, and be alone with my thoughts,’ but Aziraphale understands, anyway.

Maybe he’s not quite ready to be alone yet, either.

And maybe that’s why he follows Crowley out to the car.

“Well, to the bookshop, I suppose,” Aziraphale tells him, when they get in the Bentley.

“It’s not there,” Crowley says robotically, “It’ll be a pile of bricks now.”

“You know it’s not,” Aziraphale begins, worry clambering up his spine again, “Crowley, you’ve been there since. Remember?”

“I saw it. I _saw_ it all burn down, I was in there, I looked for you, I _saw_ -”

Crowley only stops because Aziraphale gently places a hand over his.

“I can feel it, Crowley,” he assures his friend, “It will be there to welcome us. I promise, it’s back. You even saw it before me. Don’t you remember?”

“What? Yes, of course… right…”

“Crowley, please come back to the shop with me,” Aziraphale pleads, “Just to put your nerves right, okay? It’s been a very long day, and I know losing the shop took such a toll on you.”

Begrudgingly, and saying nothing to that, Crowley drives.

 

_Fear me, you lords, and lady preachers,_

_I descend upon your Earth, from the skies._

_I command your very souls, you unbelievers._

_Bring before me what is mine!_

_The seven seas of rhye._

 

“Don’t believe I’ve heard this one,” Aziraphale mentions.

“Not their most popular one, but one of my favorites.”

Aziraphale glances sidelong at Crowley’s handsome profile, and insists, “every Queen song is a favorite of yours.”

“The case could be made, yes,” is all Crowley answers.

Aziraphale smiles wider.

 

_Can you hear me, you peers, and privy counsellors?_

_I stand before you, naked to the eyes._

_I will destroy any man who dares abuse my trust,_

_I swear that you'll be mine!_

_The seven seas of rhye._

 

Crowley is leaned back in his seat with his legs spread wider than necessary, as he so often likes to sit; his posture is abysmal, but to Aziraphale there’s something always charming about it. There’s a swagger to Crowley that he would envy, if he weren’t perfectly happy being himself - which, most every day, he is.

Through the open window, crickets can be heard, the steps of passers-by too, and he admires the glow of every open shop, and home.

It really is beautiful.

He breathes in deeply; the night air is fresh, cool, perfumed, and perfect.

Aziraphale thinks he could hardly ask for more; the world still so imperfectly stands, his friend is safe, Adam Young is at home with his dog, Anethema is in her cottage with her own companion, he’s full of wine, good food, good cheer, and here, the night air is simply perfect.

Who could ever ask for more?

 

_Sister, I live, and lie for you,_

_Mister, do, and I'll die._

_You are mine, I possess you._

_I belong to you forever. (Ever, ever, ever)_

 

Aziraphale’s brows spring up at the high note, on ‘ever,’ - he expresses how impressed he is to Crowley, but Crowley seems too distracted to notice.

He’s worried.

His jaw is set, and while his cheekbones are always sharp, and stunning, there’s something harder about them when he’s worried; and they look particularly high and sharp now.

What’s even more telling, honestly, is that Crowley isn’t speeding. Even a little.

Aziraphale knows the bookshop will be there, but he wonders what Crowley went through, losing it - what he went through, actually _experiencing_ losing the bookshop. Going inside, apparently, in search for him, and finding no one there.

He’s glad he didn’t see his shop burn down, and he knows it’s standing back up again, but…

**_“Nah, I changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”_ **

_Oh_ , Aziraphale recalls, _Crowley had looked so devastated. My mind was in so many places at once at the time, I couldn’t comfort him properly then. He seemed so desolate._

He wonders if it’s a proper time, and place, now, to tell him he also considers Crowley his best friend - he hardly heard the words when Crowley had professed them, but in retrospect, it was all so meaningful.

Poor man had gone off to drink himself silly through the end of the world, all alone, despairing, crying in public, holding onto a burnt book as a dreadful ‘souvenir,’ from their destroyed friendship.

Aziraphale would never say the words, but Crowley does make for a terrible demon; much too caring, that man.

 

_Storm the master marathon I'll fly through,_

_By flash, and thunder fire, I'll survive, (I’ll survive, I’ll survive…)_

_Then I'll defy the laws of nature, and come out alive._

_Then I'll get you!_

 

_Be gone with you, you shod, and shady senators,_

_Give out the good, leave out the bad, evil cries,_

_I challenge the mighty titan, and his troubadours,_

_And with a smile,_

_I'll take you to the seven seas of rhye!_

 

“You know it’s made up.”

“Hmm?”

“Seven seas of Rhye,” Crowley tells him conversationally, “Freddie - he made it up. He called it a figment of his imagination.”

“So, does the song actually mean anything?”

“Most songs do,” Crowley offers, “Think it depends on who’s listening to it.”

“Gracious, I am so glad you’re here.”

Crowley turns to look at him in surprise as ‘ _A Kind of Magic_ ,’ begins to play, and Aziraphale extrapolates, “just… you’re right. You’re right - it does depend on who’s listening, and I… I’m just so glad you’re here, and saying so. You’re so brilliant. I’m so glad you’re here, with me, being brilliant. Just… that’s all.”

A long, silent beat passes.

Giving a sardonic half-laugh, Crowley looks away, then, and with red ears, replies smoothly (dare he say, _flirtatiously_ ), “you go too fast for me, Aziraphale.”

Flushing, Aziraphale shuts his mouth until they pull up to the shop.

It’s in pristine condition, as he knew it would be.

“It was - I swear, I swear I wouldn’t lie about this, it was -”

“I believe you, dear,” Aziraphale tells him, “Truly. I never doubted you. I’ve never seen you in such a state as after the shop - I certainly believe you. But it’s here now, it’s back, and it’s staying. You do remember being here, in my body, don't you? So, how about you come in? See for yourself, in your own skin, right?”

Crowley seems suspicious, and hesitant at first, but when Aziraphale smiles grandly at him, he rolls his eyes behind his shades, and surrenders.

They walk inside together, and Crowley goes on to touch the spine of every book he can, admiring them, mentioning new titles he’s never seen in the shop before, and alerting Aziraphale to the fact that his Wilde collection has multiplied, somehow.

“Did you… did you really not remember?”

Crowley looks to Aziraphale from a collection of detective novels that have a new home in the shop, and cocks a brow that arches over his lens.

“You were here, in my body. Didn’t you remember?”

“Sure,” Crowley responds, “I remember Hell too, Angel. I remember what the Fall was like. For all I know… I don’t know, Angel. I don’t know. I thought, for a minute… maybe all of this was an elaborate trick. Six thousand some-odd years of slow torture, to peak, and then to be relieved, only to find that the respite was a dream. I think I was sca - worried - _worried_ , that we’d step out of the Bentley, and it would collapse in flames, and then I’d look to the shop, and you’d be in it, burning away in Hellfire, and I’d be right back where I started, all those lives ago, with nothing, and no one.”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale breathes, touching his own chest, “Well, that’s not the case, dear. I… I saw it, down there. How… awful a business it would have been, had they truly had you. But… slow torture? I tend to think the last six thousand some-odd years have been pleasant, for the most part.”

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley sighs, collapsing on a settee, “You’re remarkably dense for someone so, so bright.”

“I resent that,” Aziraphale tells him, nose in the air.

Crowley smiles at him, but it’s watered down.

“Won’t you tell me? What’s been so torturous?”

“ _You_ , Aziraphale - you’ve been my torturer from the start.”

“ _What_!?” Aziraphale exclaims, wounded deeply, “However do you mean!? Crowley! I’m hurt you’d say such a thing!”

Crowley dumps his forehead into his palms, rests his elbows on his thighs, and tells the ground, “oh, silly, he gives his flaming, Blessed sword away - _gives it away_! I think to myself ‘spectacular, he’s an idiot,’ and then it’s all about goodness, and hoping the best for humanity, and I think, ‘well, fuck, he’s not an idiot, he’s generous, and he’s not disgusted by me, and he’s _handsome_ ,’ and I think, ‘She _knows_ I can’t do this!’ She knew I wouldn’t be able to treat you cruelly. She knew. She knows now, too. She knew I’d love you at the start, and I did. And you always expected the worst of me - even after the Church - you’d doubt me. I couldn’t hurt you, though. Anyone, anything else, but not you. And She knew that. She knew I’d love you, and so she made you entirely unattainable.”

Crowley picks his head up, and looks at a far bookcase to his right, unwilling to look at Aziraphale quite yet.

“All I could do was watch you. Couldn’t touch you, couldn’t… _do_ anything about it. Just had to be in love with you, and keep a healthy distance. In part, cause you wanted that. You didn’t like me getting too chummy, and I understood, but also… if I’d… I’d ever _tempted_ you… you’d Fall. Like me. I couldn’t… I can’t win, Angel. The only winning for me is when you’re here, and you’re happy, and you’re healthy, and that’s all I’ll ever have.”

“I know that’s selfish, but it’s in my nature to be selfish. So, why wouldn’t it all end in fire? You see? Why would the bookshop be here, why would we have gotten away, if it weren’t all just for my guards to get dropped, and for you to get stripped away? If I ever got what I wanted, you’d Fall, and if I don’t get what I want, well… I’ve gone six thousand years without it, I can probably do another six thousand more.”

Maybe half a minute passes in stunned silence, and then looking itchy, shaking a leg compulsively, Crowley snaps, “say something!”

“Y-You’re in love with me?”

It’s all Aziraphale can splutter out, panicked, and tingling pink all from scalp to toes.

“Yeah, yep, I gotta go,” Crowley announces, standing abruptly, “I can’t do this. I’ve - I’ll see you in a decade or so. I need a nap. Just -”

Rushing toward him, Aziraphale grabs hold of Crowley’s arm, and Crowley twists to look back at him.

“I… it may have started in Rome for me, but… it was the Church,” Aziraphale explains a little a short of breath, floundering, really, “It was the Church that I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Crowley, I won’t Fall,” Aziraphale reassures him, smiling, feeling heat behind his eyes, “It struck me like lightning, that night. You handed me my books, and… oh, I thought something like, ‘I ought to tell him he’s the most wonderful being in all Creation,’ and I’d have meant it. I heard music playing, and it felt like every part of me was just - just molten gold. Really, and truly, the most beautiful thing I've ever felt, and it's never left me.”

Crowley’s expression does something complicated, and unprecedented, “you mean -”

“I was so scared,” Aziraphale confesses, gripping Crowley’s black jacket sleeve tighter, “Petrified, really. Didn’t think I’d Fall, but I’d never felt anything like it. Didn’t know what to make of it. I read about five hundred romance novels afterward, just to make sure - you know, have my resources right, see that what I was feeling was well documented, and… it’s very pure, Crowley. It’s not about tempting me - if ever we… well, _did_ anything, Crowley, it would be love-making, because, it may come as a shock to you, dear, but I’m quite… quite in love with you too.”

Another beat of silence.

“No, you’re not.”

“Pardon?”

“Alright - I’m calling it,” Crowley declares, taking his arm back, snapping his head around, “End it! This is going too far! Whatever ring this is, I’d prefer the holy water!”

Exasperated, Aziraphale grabs Crowley by his lapels, and drags him forward, kissing him.

_Kissing him!_

Aziraphale almost immediately panics, and draws back again, licking his lips, and staring wide-eyed into Crowley’s spectacles.

“Take those off, dear,” he requests hoarsely, “It’s just us.”

With a shaky hand, Crowley reaches up, takes his glasses off, and throws them onto the settee behind him. He doesn’t break eye-contact for more than split-second.

It’s always a pleasure to see Crowley’s eyes. His pupils are wider than usual now, and surrounding his pupils, like a narrow halo, is a shimmering gold color, that bleeds into rustic orange. They’re beautiful eyes.

“You’ve got such beautiful eyes, Crowley.”

Crowley gives a little huff, maybe of surprise, then he steps forward, toe-to-toe with Aziraphale. He puts his hands on Aziraphale’s elbows, and Aziraphale puts his hands on Crowley’s upper-arms.

They’re awfully close.

And, Crowley leans closer.

He tilts his head, bumps the sides of their noses together, then says, “tell me it’s alright to kiss you again.”

“It is,” Aziraphale whispers, jugular pounding on his neck.

“You want me to?”

“I want you to.”

"You want to be mine, Aziraphale? Want to be my Angel?

" _Yes_ ," his voice shakes.

“How badly?”

“Oh, Crowley - !”

When Crowley kisses him, it’s with sweet restraint at first. He closes the small gap between them, and fits his lips against Aziraphale’s, so gently, so precisely, like he needs it to be perfect - and when nothing bursts into flames, nothing collapses, or disappears, Crowley sighs with contentment. He smiles, but still, it's a perfect, chaste kiss.

That molten gold feeling strikes through Aziraphale again - he feels it from the upturn of his cowlick, to the very tips of his toes; he’s warm everywhere, he can smell Crowley, feel how happy Crowley is, sense his want, his desires, his patience, and he can feel this pent up love seeping out of Crowley.

The Judean Desert is about nine hundred and thirty-two miles of uninterrupted nature and Earth, and it lies west of the Judea mountains, and east of the Dead Sea. There are towering cliffs along the eastern edge of the desert, the peaks of which stretch over a hundred feet in the air. The Qumran Caves are there, where humans discovered the oldest Hebrew biblical manuscript (back in 1937 - Aziraphale really couldn't have dropped more hints than he did; the humans took such time to find it). There too are the remains of King Herod's fortress at Massada, at the top of which, one can see the Dead Sea, plateaus, and canyons, surrounding in all directions.

When night falls over the land, the Milky Way bisects the sky with diamonds and smoky blues, purples, whites, and, what was orange in sunlight, turns purple in moonlight, and what was harsh in the day, seems so soft, and vulnerable at night.

And that’s what Crowley’s love feels like - not barren, or cold, but ancient, teeming with unlikely life, dangerous to become lost in, impossibly beautiful, and awe-inspiring in just existing.

It leaves Aziraphale breathless.

He wonders how in Heaven Crowley kept all of it in for so long - it's enough to swallow the universe whole. Maybe Aziraphale couldn't sense it for precisely that reason, though; perhaps it was too big to feel so close up.

Crowley moves his lips against Aziraphale’s, his hands moving to Aziraphale’s waist, holding him in place, and Aziraphale kisses him back, suddenly hungry, suddenly wanting more, needing to be closer, wanting Crowley to feel how much he loves him back.

Aziraphale was never really interested in sensual, or sexual acts before - not even very innocent touching, like kissing - but he thinks he understands it now.

The desperation, the very intense need for the other person to somehow understand how much love you're brimming with. How words aren’t enough, breath isn’t enough - so, Aziraphale lets his hands roam over Crowley’s chest, shoulders, arms, and neck, into his hair, and Crowley does much of the same. He kisses Aziraphale for long, languid minutes, then kisses his nose, his cheek, his neck, latching on there, making Aziraphale's breath skip; they're still standing in the middle of the bookshop together, but Crowley seems content to stay there for all eternity - happy, in fact, to kiss him for the next six thousand years.

And, really, Aziraphale could not imagine asking for more.


End file.
